


Bavarian Melancholy

by orphan_account



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: A tiny bit of gay sex, FC Bayern München, Fluff and Crack, Football | Soccer, Loss of Innocence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 07:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21442591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: One day after the painful sacking of Niko Kovac, the three top dogs at Bayern have to find their own ways of dealing with the ensuing emotional distress.
Relationships: Uli Hoeneß/Karl-Heinz Rummenigge
Comments: 1





	Bavarian Melancholy

It is Monday. The day after the venerated triumvirate of Uli Hoeneß, Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, and Hasan Salihamidzic ー lovingly nicknamed Brazzo ー sadly parted ways with their coach and dear friend, Niko Kovac, to be succeeded by his assistant coach, the pretty boy Hansi Flick. His first training session as head coach had concluded several hours ago. Brazzo roamed through the empty offices at Säbener Straße, once teeming with life and filled to the brim with smiling faces, but now nothing of that jovial, carefree atmosphere remained. It was as if some invisible force had drained the life out of the place. Sometimes, when he listened really hard, Brazzo thought he could still hear Niko’s hearty laugh echo through the halls, a remnant of that kind, brave soul.

On the otherwise perfectly clean floor, he noticed something glistening in the evening sun. A single black hair, luscious, full of life; unmistakably Niko’s. Brazzo picked it up, tears welling in his eyes. As he suppressed an emotional outburst, he held the hair up to his face and moved it through the last rays of sunshine. The memories, the happy times, all gone, crumbled to dust, in mere minutes when they discussed Niko’s fate and decided to tell him they would reluctantly accept the resignation request they still had to convince him to hand in.

Storing the hair in a small plastic bag, sealing it tight and putting it into his pocket, he carried on. Down the halls, down memory lane. He reminisced of that one, singular time he had stumbled over his words in an interview, a dark stain, an unfortunate mark of shame on his otherwise untarnished professional legacy. Oh how they teased him, how they mocked and derided him. Manuel had called him a donkey, Thiago said he was a ‘yo no hablo alemán’, and Thomas spoke in tongues or possibly had a stroke when he uttered, ‘Ach, des is doch Schmarrn, hör ma auf damit. Sapperlot und Kruzifix!’. Robert just gave him an autograph with a confused expression. But not Niko. A bastion of compassion and empathy, strong shoulders to cry on, he was Brazzo’s anchor in the rough, unforgiving sea that was being a mouthpiece without any real duties or responsibilities for a club too big to actually properly fail.

Lastly, he arrived at the dreaded wall. That damned wall. Here, pictures of many current employees hung. Uli and Kalle with their magnificent glamour shots, Jan-Christian Dreesen’s special, distinct face, and somewhere, he was sure, was his own photo. And Niko Kovac. Still smiling, a capsule of innocence lost, not a worry in sight for that good boy. But he wasn’t a boy anymore. No, yesterday evening, a boy entered their offices and left a bruised, battered man. This world isn’t meant for the pure, the immaculate ー not for the Niko Kovac of yesterday.

Slowly, he picked up the photo. In the picture frame, he saw his own reflection, noticing the tears streaming down his cheeks. “Oh,” he said, but he didn’t wipe them away. He wouldn’t yet, he couldn’t. He would just sit down and hold this framed photo close to him for a while. That was the only thing Brazzo wanted to do.

* * *

In another part of Munich, Uli wandered through the deserted streets of the inner-city. He was down on his luck. In his hand, he held a crumpled picture of him and Jupp Heynckes, the man he once called friend, lover, or even ‘Mei besta Freind’, who now wouldn’t answer his calls. Not even his dog, Cando, reacted to the delicious bits of weißwurst Uli had put down as bait. Whoever he tried to call, he only reached voicemail; for his emails, he got automated messages two hours later informing him that the person he tried to contact was on vacation. And now, his desperate cries remained unheard.

“Does anyone here want to coach the Rekordmeister?” he yelled, waited, listened for an answer. Nothing came. “Mia san mia,” he whispered solemnly. In the distance, he noticed a tumbleweed rolling by, picking up in pace when he watched it closer. All the shops were closed, window blinds lowered down. He was truly alone in his misery.

But then he remembered: he wasn’t alone. He would never be alone, for there was one person who would never leave his side.

Uli opened the door to his house. “Daddy’s home!” he shouted.

The distinct pitter-patter of excited naked feet on cold laminate. Kalle rounded the corner, a wistful smile on his lips. He had obviously cried recently, but seeing his precious Uli, everything was alright in his world again. “Daddy’s home,” he said softly.

“And daddy’s horny,” Uli breathed huskily into Kalle’s ear, firmly grabbing his wrinkled butt.

“Then I shall comply,” Kalle said, turned around, and heard a quiet _ thud _ in unison with Uli’s rough, abrasive hand slapping his posterior. That put a little spring in his step.

After Uli refreshed himself in the bathroom with a quick Maß of beer, he entered the bedroom. On the bed, Kalle lay lasciviously, waiting for his master’s return, wearing nothing but a leather thong; FC Bayern’s logo was on its front, as well as on its back. “How can I satisfy daddy’s needs today?” he asked.

“Well, our fair Hansi demonstrated he’s got what it takes to be our coach,” Uli said. “So now it’s time for you to show you still have it in you to be our _ head _coach.”

“Oh please, let me have it in me, you naughty man, you,” Kalle begged.

“Believe me, that won’t be the only thing in you.” Uli opened the bedside drawer and retrieved his cock ring fashioned after a Rolex watch. He closed the drawer and placed the picture of Jupp he still held in his hand on top of it, propping it up against a lamp.

“You are the worst,” Kalle said in anticipation.

“No,” Uli said, dropping his lederhosen, “I _ have _ the Wurst.”

No more words were spoken. Kalle devoured Uli’s massive weißwurst protruding from under his equally enormous lower belly covered in white hair, caressing his saggy nutsack with his ghoulish fingers. For one evening, all was good in the Free State of Bavaria.

**Author's Note:**

> Is it obvious I dislike Bayern?  
The last part isn't "haha gay", but rather a different interpretation of their RL relationship and their public image of super masculine patriarchs.


End file.
